


The Trial of Distance

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: The Hunter and His Boy [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism (Briefly), Anal Sex, Angst, Claustrophobia, Fluff, France (Country), Graphic Descriptions of Gore (Brief), M/M, Mexico, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse (Non-Sexual), Phone Calls & Telephones, Pining, READ AT YOUR OWN PERSONAL RISK, Smoking, Swearing, THE FLUFF IN THIS WILL KILL YOU, artist!isaac, vanilla sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has to leave.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

ISAAC LAHEY

 

It had been a month. One whole month since Chris had left.

At first, it’d been fun; having an apartment all to himself, in _Paris,_ wasn’t anything to complain about. He invited Camille and her fiancé over, along with a few other members of LeCárre’s pack, and the artists from the gallery. He wore makeup, got Camille to show him a few tricks in perfecting his look, and dressed as outlandishly as he wanted- he played up his beauty, acting like a silly little pretty boy, and it was the most fun he’d ever had. They had parties, drunk until sunrise, laughed at the sight of the humans who were knocked out by drink or hungover. They were supernatural teenagers, young and stupid, giggling about things that did not matter.

But the fun didn’t last.

Chris stopped calling, and stopped answering his phone, and Isaac was getting worried.

He wasn’t sleeping properly.

When he dreamed about Allison, it was about her smile, her laugh, her body. It was only when he woke that he’d realise she was gone, and she’d never come back. He’d crawl into Chris’ bed, where his scent was strongest. It wasn’t enough. He needed Chris here, to hold him, to tell him everything was alright.

He started to dream of his father, too.

He’d done this, even when his father was still alive; though there were often no images, and he couldn’t remember specifics, there would be an insidious, creeping fear, slowly overtaking him, creeping into him, filling his mind with white-hot terror, until he woke up. Staring at the ceiling. Too scared to move. Frozen rigid. He’d suck in a breath, lungs burning, and his throat would be sore from screaming while asleep.

The shaking was the worst, when those nights came. He’d tremble uncontrollably, cold and hot at the same time, the feeling filling up his brain, prickling the inside of his skull. Even when his heart stopped hammering, it would still be there, and he’d shrink away from people, flinch away from harmless gestures. After a week or so, he ended up confining himself to the apartment, where he was safe, locking the door and keeping the world out. He left occasionally to buy food, but spent most of his time leaving voicemails on Chris’ phone, and staring wistfully out at the Eiffel Tower through his tiny window.

It hadn’t been this bad when Chris was close.

With nothing else that he felt comfortable doing, he taught himself to draw. Camille and the gallery had taught him a little, but he dedicated himself, learning how to hold a pencil softly, gently, learning how to make the barest of lines on a page until he finally understood that a picture was nothing more than a collection of suggestions. It became an obsession. He bought blu-tack from the store, stuck drawings to his vanity, framed the mirror with torn-out pages. He drew objects around the apartment, people he could see from the balcony, pictures from the internet, and was constantly sketching the Eiffel Tower itself- then, he had the absurd idea of going onto Chris and Allison’s Facebook pages and drawing pictures of them, which ended up making him feel worse instead of better.

He left pages scattered on the kitchen bench, on the lounge, around the beanbag where he liked to curl up, and on Chris’ bed. It made him feel less lonely. As if the apartment were full, instead of empty.

Camille, and other Wolves, appeared at the doorstep occasionally, drawn in by the sound of him screaming at night. Worried for him. Even the great Madame LeCárre came. Isaac turned them all away, though he was touched that they cared- it was harder to tell LeCárre to leave. She was so overpowering, so dominant, that he wanted to kneel in front of her like a dog. The Wolf inside him bowed in her presence, but the human part of him valued pride over comfort.

He wasn’t feeding himself properly. But he didn’t much care. He promised himself he’d eat well when Chris came back, when there was _reason_ for him to take care of himself.

“I stopped modelling. I know you’d be disappointed, I just… I can’t do it. Not without you. I can’t be around people, I can’t- I can’t go _outside,_ Chris, it’s… It’s too… Please, will you just call me? Send me a text? _Something?_ I don’t have Scott’s number, so I can’t ring him and ask if you’re alright. Just… Just let me know you’re alive, okay? I don’t care what you say, just please, _please,_ for the love of god, Chris, fucking _talk to me!”_

He got angry. Angrier and angrier, like he wanted to find someone and make them give him a _reason_ to hurt them. It built and built, parallel to the hopelessness and loneliness he felt, until he had a fit of fury- when he came out of it, he was sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken china and pieces of glass. He stared around him, horrified, thinking, _I did this._

His hands shook, bleeding, as he cleaned the mess up. The wounds closed over, but he found himself wishing they hadn’t. Here he was, throwing a tantrum, wrecking Chris’ home, when he’d been given such kindness and patience. In his mind, he deserved to bleed for his stupidity.

It was an echo of words spoken to him in the past. His father’s words.

He realised he was abusing himself, hating himself the way his father had taught him, but he didn’t know how to stop. He needed someone to make him stop. He needed Chris to come and help him love himself, the way he had begun to all these months.

He was alone, in a big city that he didn’t know, trying to speak a language that still sat uncomfortably on his tongue- and he was scared. He wasn’t a man. He was only a boy.

He was terrified.

 

***

 

Isaac woke up, and didn’t know what time it was. He stayed where he was, curled up in Chris’ bed, and stared glumly into nothingness. Today would be the same as all the other days. He would wait in the apartment, and Chris would not come. He would not call. He would not text.

Isaac was beginning to think Chris had been killed.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to stop the swelling heat of tears under his eyelids. He tried to let the scent overtake him, Chris’ scent; the smell of his skin, that clung to this bed, to his clothes, to his dumb leather jacket that Isaac loved so much. He imagined Chris’ hands, gentle and caring, and his voice, low and calm and understanding. He thought of Chris’ chest pressed against his, arms around him, the scratchy feeling of his trimmed beard.

Isaac sniffed, and pawed at his eyes. It wasn’t enough. Thinking about what he couldn’t have only made it worse.

He got up, and went into the kitchen. Opened the fridge, stared at what little food was in there, and closed it again. He went to the beanbag, curled up on it, and turned the TV on. He didn’t feel like drawing today. He didn’t feel like doing anything.

He stayed where he was for an hour, stomach rumbling, tight under his abdomen with hunger. He hunched tighter in on himself, and ignored it as best he could.

Then something amazing happened.

The phone rang.

He ran to his bedroom, where his phone was charging on the wall, and tried not to get his hopes up- maybe it was a telemarketer, or some kind of census taker, or a Wolf asking after his wellbeing, or a prank call-

He looked at the caller ID.

Chris Argent.

“Hello? Chris?” He’d never answered a call faster, and his voice was unsteady. “Chris, are you there?”

_“Hey, Isaac.”_

Chris’ voice wasn’t just tired- he sounded exhausted. But he sounded relieved, too, and Isaac sagged, letting out a long breath. He found himself kneeling next to the bed, grinning into the mattress, pressing the phone against his cheek.

“God, I missed your voice,” he whispered.

_“Yeah. Yeah, I miss you too, Isaac.”_

His voice was gently affectionate, and Isaac smiled, eyes closed.

“When are you coming home?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Isaac felt a heavy, sinking despair, slowly filling his gut. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes, and waited for Chris to say he was coming home, he would be back, and everything would be alright.

But he didn’t.

“…Chris?”

_“I had to make a deal with the Calaveras. I hunt down Kate with them, and they leave Scott’s pack alone.”_

That wasn’t what Isaac needed to hear. Louder, he demanded, “When are you coming home?”

Chris took a breath, and when he spoke, Isaac could hear pain in his voice, and he realised they were feeling the same agony, countries apart. _“I want to tell you something. You’ll need a pen and paper.”_

“Chris-”

_“Please, Isaac. Do this for me.”_

Isaac grabbed a torn page that sat next to his pillow, and went to the kitchen bench, where he knew there were pencils. He sat down, and said, “Alright, I’ve got it.”

_“Write this down. Three, eight, four, seven.”_

Isaac did, scrawling the numbers next to an unfinished drawing of Allison. “What’s that mean? Is it a code?”

_“It’s the PIN number to the Argent family’s French savings account. The card’s in my bedside table.”_

The pencil hit the paper, and Isaac looked down at the numbers, horrified.

“…What…?”

_“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I want you to be able to support yourself while I’m away.”_

“But,” Isaac whispered, unable to believe it, “there must be _millions_ in that account.”

_“There is.”_

Isaac felt sick.

 _“I trust you. Besides,”_ Chris laughed sadly, _“you’re the only family I’ve got left now. The money belongs to you, too.”_

He should’ve told Chris how that made him feel, the honour of being the son Chris had never had, how much he adored Chris, how much he needed him. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t open his mouth, because he knew what this felt like.

This felt like a goodbye.

_“I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hunt Kate. I want to be with you, where I belong.”_

Isaac put a hand over his mouth, because he was crying, and he didn’t want Chris to hear that. Not when he couldn’t help.

_“…Isaac?”_

He shook his head, leaning forward, squeezing his eyes shut, and summoning every last scrap of control he had.

_“Isaac? Are you still there? Isaac?”_

“If you don’t come back,” Isaac finally said, voice shaking, “I’ll kill you.”

After a shocked pause, Chris laughed. _“I’m coming back.”_

“Promise.”

_“I promise.”_

“Chris?”

_“Yeah?”_

“I love you.”

_“…Love you too, Isaac.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for homophobic language in this one, from Isaac's memories of his father.

CHRIS ARGENT

 

Mexico was suffocating him.

Sand stuck to him, tiny hard grains, and he couldn’t wash it off, no matter how long he scrubbed himself raw. It was covering him like smoke. He stood in the back of the Calavera’s meeting, arms crossed, sweat slicking his neck and his forehead. He was baking. Drenched in the essence of this filthy place. He was going insane, driven mad by the boiling sand under him, the littered bones bleached white by the sun, the stickiness and the humid lethargy- they’d been hunting Kate for five whole days straight, with no sign of her. He’d shaved off his hair and his beard two days ago, but it hadn’t made much difference.

They moved from place to place, motel to motel, every new place as shitty and lifeless as the last. Peeling wallpaper. Cracked ceilings. Springy beds that were stained by previous occupants. And the _dryness_ of it all- no moisture, but for sealed bottles of water, and the poisonous puddles that littered the desert, surrounded by the carcasses of dead animals who had been tempted by the glittering liquid.

He never thought he’d long for rain.

“You ought to participate more, Christopher,” Araya Calavera said, bent over an archaic map, “, given it’s your bloodline that’s slaughtering Mexican innocents.”

He glared at the back of her head, and did not reply.

They wouldn’t catch Kate, he knew that better than anyone. They were only human, only Hunters, and she had a lifetime of training combined with the viciousness of the supernatural. She was twice what they were.

“I keep telling you,” he said, after several minutes, “I need to do this on my own.”

“And yet you invite _help_ from France? Which is it, Christopher? Alone, or not?”

He set his jaw.

He really hoped Zac was everything LeCárre claimed he was.

She turned from her map, her sons echoing her movements like puppets. He stayed where he was, and stared her down. She stared right back, mouth quirked into that evil smile that made him so _furious._

“You are afraid to kill her.”

He sneered. “I’m not afraid.”

“Then why are you so reluctant, hmm?”

He didn’t hesitate, and spat, “Because I don’t work with savages.”

That comment earned him a backhanded slap across the face, that made his cheek sting and his eyes water, but- no matter how much he wanted to- he didn’t strike back. He left the room, ignoring the jeers of the Calaveras boys. His pride could go to hell, for all he cared; he hadn’t been able to contact Isaac since their first phone call, unable to escape the Calaveras even once.

Now he had his chance.

He got into his car, and started driving. They’d think he was ashamed of being struck, of bowing to Araya’s superiority, and was going off to get wasted in a bar or some such.

He drove as far as he could on an old, nearly buried, road, until he was sitting in the middle of the desert. The sun was sinking, the landscape quickly becoming blue with the light of the rising moon. Soon, there would be darkness all around him. He turned off his lights, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be invisible.

He scanned the skyline around him, utterly flat, searching for creeping figures or cars. He waited until it was too dark to see anything, and only then did he turn his phone on. He stared with dismay at the screen; five missed calls, all from Isaac. One for every day they hadn’t spoken.

He dialled Isaac and held the phone to his ear.

On the first ring, Isaac picked up, sounding breathless, _“Chris,”_ he said, _“Jesus, I was starting to think you were dead or something. Again.”_

Chris laughed, probably inappropriately given the conversation, but heard a burst of static as Isaac laughed too. He found himself leaning back in his chair, eyes slipping closed, smiling in the complete darkness.

“I miss you, Isaac.”

 _“I miss you, too,”_ Isaac admitted, sounding endearingly embarrassed, _“Have you got any news? Are you any closer to catching her?”_

“No. She’s clever.”

_“Like you?”_

“I don’t aspire to being her kind of clever.”

Again, Isaac laughed, and Chris couldn’t believe how good that sound made him feel. Isaac sounded happy, which took a gigantic portion of the weight off Chris’ shoulders.

“How are you, Isaac?”

 _“I’m alright. LeCárre came by a while ago…”_ Isaac’s voice was thoughtful, considering, and Chris could visualise him scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. _“…And I realised I couldn’t… break down, y’know? I have to take care of myself.”_

Chris thanked god for LeCárre.

“That’s good. Really good.”

He wanted to ask about the nightmares, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t do that to Isaac, or to himself- not when he couldn’t be there, to hold Isaac, to help him feel everything was alright.

_“I went back to the gallery, but I’m not modelling anymore. Just drawing. I’m really good, too. You should see some of the stuff I can do now.”_

“The picture you drew for me on Christmas was pretty damn good.”

 _“Yeah, well, I’m better now,”_ Isaac said, in a tone that was both embarrassed and flattered, and Chris grinned, _“Did you take it with you?”_

“Yeah. It’s in my bag.”

_“Cool. That’s nice.”_

Chris took a deep breath, ran his hand up his thigh, the feeling of sturdy denim under his palm reassuring him as much as the sound of Isaac’s voice did. He felt, for the first time in days, calm.

_“So, why haven’t you been picking up your phone?”_

“I couldn’t get away from the Calaveras.”

_“You can’t make a phone call in front of them?”_

“Do you know what would happen if they realised I was living with a Wolf, Isaac?”

There was a pause. _“…That’s a good point.”_

“I don’t want to get you hurt.”

 Isaac snorted. _“Don’t worry about me.”_

“They’d kill you.”

 _“They’d kill_ you _too. Worry about that.”_

“I’ll worry about you if I want to.” Chris grinned; this was turning into banter. “You can’t exactly stop me.”

 _“Bet I could,”_ Isaac countered, and Chris could hear the smirk in his voice. They were talking about nothing important, both mutually content to do so.

“How? Can you teleport here?”

_“I could use my magical mind powers.”_

Chris laughed, because he didn’t know what on earth that meant, but he was just so glad to hear Isaac joking and laughing like a proper teenager should.

_“So, it’s my birthday next month.”_

Chris was surprised. “It is?”

_“Yup. March third.”_

“What do you want?”

_“You at home.”_

Chris opened his eyes, stared sadly into the darkness. There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I’ll be home by then, Isaac.”

 _“Well,”_ Isaac sighed, _“that’d be nice. But, if you aren’t, it’ll be alright. I’ll be okay.”_

“I promise I’ll be home on your birthday, Isaac,” he said, fully aware he couldn’t promise any such thing, “LeCárre’s sending one of her best Hunters over here, to help us catch Kate. He should arrive tomorrow. We could have her within a week.”

_“That’s hopeful. Wait- LeCárre has Hunters?”_

“…Yeah, I’d appreciate it if you could keep that to yourself. It’s a secret.”

_“He’s a spy for her pack?”_

“Yes. He’s a part of her pack.”

 _“And a Hunter?”_ Isaac sounded impressed. _“I didn’t actually think that was possible.”_

“Neither did I.”

_“…And he’ll get you home safe?”_

“Yes. I’m coming home. I swear.”

 _“Just…”_ Isaac’s voice became small, “ _….Just be careful, okay? Don’t die.”_

“I’m not going to die.”

_“Well,”_

“I’m not going to die _any time soon,_ Isaac,” Chris laughed.

Silence fell, the pause longer this time, until Isaac eventually spoke up;

_“I guess I should let you get back to Hunting, huh.”_

“I can talk to you all night if you want me to.”

_“It’s night there?”_

“Midnight.”

_“Huh. It’s seven in the morning here.”_

“That’s timezones for you.” Chris frowned when he heard a low rumbling. He looked around, and his eyes widened when he saw a Jeep fast approaching. He squinted at the person in the drivers’ seat- to his relief, it wasn’t a Calavera. Zac, behind the wheel, raised a hand in greeting, grinning. Chris waved in reply.

_“…Chris? You there?”_

“I have to go.”

 _“Why?”_ Isaac demanded. _“What’s happening?”_

“Nothing’s wrong,” Chris reassured him, “LeCárre’s Hunter has arrived. Zac Lambert.”

 _“Oh.”_ Isaac said, relieved. _“Good.”_

Zac parked, getting out of his car.

“I better go see him.” Chris paused, the words sticking in his throat- but he didn’t know when he’d get to say it next, so he swallowed thickly, and said, “Love you, Isaac.”

_“…I love you too, Chris.”_

Smiling, Chris hung up. He smiled widely at Isaac’s profile picture; in it, Isaac was grinning, leaning against the balcony railing, the Eiffel Tower behind him.

Zac rapped on his window. The sound made Chris jump. “What’re you smiling at?”

Forcing his face into a dully annoyed expression, the warm thrill of happiness still filling his chest, Chris got out of the car, slipping his phone into his pocket. Zac was dressed in loose clothes- which, at second glance, appeared to be military in origin. He wore a dusty, tattered cowboy hat, and Chris noted, amused, that his flair for the dramatic clearly hadn’t faded. His face was strong and flat, the kind of face which once might’ve held some charm or friendliness, but was instead weather-beaten and scarred. Chris saw a lot of himself in Zac.

“How’re you doing, man?” Zac asked, grinning.

“Alright,” Chris replied, as Zac pulled him into a brief hug, slapping him once on the back, “Better now you’re finally here.”

“Hey, don’t bitch to me. I couldn’t even smoke on the plane. Eleven whole fucking hours.”

Chris regarded him dubiously. Zac stunk of tobacco and alcohol. “When did you land?”

Zac shrugged. “An hour ago.”

“…And you drove straight here?”

“I don’t do jetlag, man. Let’s meet these Mexican wankers, alright, and we can get down to hunting your sister.”

“Wait,” Chris said, putting a hand on his chest to stop him walking off, “You can’t let the Calaveras know you’re a Banshee.”

Zac laughed. It was a manic, uninhibited sound, accompanied by a gust of smoker’s breath. “I’ve been in the Guild for seven years. They never found out.”

“You can’t let them figure out I’m living with Isaac either.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill him. Me too, probably.”

Zac considered that. “Maybe we should just waste the whole damn family. Get it over with.”

Chris felt a swell of exasperation. “No one dies except Kate. Alright?”

Zac met his gaze, and his face was unreadable. Chris, suddenly, didn’t feel at all comforted having him around.

“Whatever, man. Let’s just go.”

 

 

 

ISAAC LAHEY

He grinned widely at his phone. There was no one around to see him smiling like a complete dork, but he pressed his face into the bed anyway, laughing. He threw the phone away from him, giggled. He felt giddy. Those words, spoken so softly, so caringly, made him so thrilled.

He’d had a nightmare last night. A bad one. He’d been inside the freezer, and had woken up soaked in sweat, his screams still lingering in the room. But hearing Chris talk to him had cured him. He felt infinitely better- and, every time he replayed those words in his mind, he could hear the hesitation in Chris’ voice, and it made his cheeks warm, to imagine Chris sheepish about saying it aloud.

He wasn’t sure what Chris was to him. Father, friend, both and neither. The truth was that he didn’t care.

Not when it felt this right.

 

He sat up, eventually, still smiling.

After taking a shower, he returned to his bedroom, and slowly began to apply makeup. Until now, he’d never truly understood the real appeal of makeup; it was a mask. A way to hide. He still had nightmares, and there were still bags under his eyes, lingering dark shadows that made him look haunted and ill. With those covered, and a convincing smile on his lips, he could pass for normalcy. More than that, he could shine.

Once he’d gotten over the weirdness of it, wearing makeup simply felt like one big ego trip; he’d always enjoyed being beautiful. He’d always known he was, but had always hidden it, always denied it. Instead of seeing his cheekbones and his eyes and his lips, people had seen the bruises, the tears in his clothes, the cuts in his skin. He had been broken. He had been abused, and when people looked at him, that was all they saw. Here, in France, worlds away from fucking Beacon Hills, he was not abused.

He was beautiful. That was all these strangers knew about him.

Isaac chose dark eye shadow today, and thick mascara. The effect should’ve been laughable, on a boy’s face, but he contoured his cheekbones and jaw, applied a sheen of lip gloss, mussing his hair with product, spraying a cloud of hairspray over his head. He dressed in a fitted purple shirt- one of his favourites- dark jeans, and a pair of black boots that Chris had bought him for Christmas. He stood in front of the mirror, and looked at himself, looked at the way his makeup was invisible, as if his face were naturally flawless. He spun in a small circle. Once, he’d have looked at himself, dressed like this, and thought, _you fucking faggot, what’re you doing?_ The thought still lingered, but it was becoming quieter every day. He liked how he looked. He liked looking good.

He was starting to believe that, maybe, he really could bury his father once and for all.

 

***

 

He went to the gallery. He’d been helping out there of late, minding the counter for Camille when she was busy in the storage room on the third floor, or with a customer. They weren’t paying him, but he wasn’t working too hard, and he liked being there. The gallery attracted a lot of artistic types, a lot of open-minded people, so he could wear whatever he wanted, and wouldn’t be ridiculed. Artists didn’t care what he looked like.

That aside, it was a very relaxed place.

Brosseau had left a few weeks ago; LeCárre had bought the gallery from him and given it to Camille and Nadia, as an engagement gift. Camille would marry Nadia in the summer, and Isaac was invited to the wedding.

LeCárre was someone Isaac thought about quite a bit.

Her words had pulled him out of a very dark place. No one had been able to reach him that easily before. She was implausibly powerful, and he could see himself following her, being her Beta. But he was an Omega, a lone Wolf- for now, he was happy with being solitary.

But she’d looked so sad, for the briefest of moments, when he had said he couldn’t be her friend. It was strange, illogical, to imagine her feeling that way. It was at odds with her very existence. But Isaac, more than anyone else, knew what it was to fake your words and your expressions, have a façade protecting you- though he had no idea what _LeCárre_ would need to protect herself from.

He decided he’d ask her, the next time he saw her. If he had the courage.

When he walked into the gallery, Camille grinned over the counter and stood, leaned over it. They kissed twice.

“How are you, dear Isaac? Any news about your Christopher?”

Isaac didn’t bother to keep the grin off his face, “He called me this morning. He’s doing okay.”

“Oh, I’m glad! Wonderful, Isaac, wonderful,” she clapped her hands, always so cheerful, always so positive, “Today will be a good day, then, I am sure.”

He laughed, because her enthusiasm always made the world seem so harmless, and he loved it. “Sure, Camille.”

They had a brief chat, wherein Camille told him about wedding dresses and bouquets, and what she thought he should wear to the wedding- a fitted tuxedo, with a blue flower in the lapel. To compliment his eyes, she said. Then a customer wandered in, and they got down to work.

This felt good. Even if Chris wasn’t there, Isaac was alright.

He was happy.

 

 

 

CHRIS ARGENT

 

They arrived back at the motel that the Calaveras were using as base camp, and the Mexican Hunters were standing outside, arms crossed, guns ready.

“We thought you weren’t coming back.” Araya said sternly, turning her steely eyes to Zac. “This is your _help,_ I assume?”

She said the word like he was disabled or somehow weak, that he should be ashamed. He wondered if she could say anything to him that wasn’t belittling or cruel; she hadn’t seemed to give a damn about Allison’s death, or Victoria’s. They were, in her eyes, tainted Hunters. Not worth the history that came with their inheritance, and certainly not worth mourning.

“This is Zac Lambert,” he said, keeping a lid on the words he wanted to say to her, “From France.”

Zac stepped forward, swaggering in the arrogant way he did, and Chris considered him warily as he approached Araya.

“Good to meet you, ma’am.” He held out a dirty hand.

She considered him with a thin-lipped smile. “You are French?”

“French Australian. Mostly Australian, really- bit too wild for the Frenchies.”

“And you come here, to Mexico, to help Christopher put his sister down?”

He grinned, widely, his white teeth set into a face dark with sun exposure and dirt. It was a feral expression.

“Putting mutts down is what I do best, ma’am.”

She smiled, wider and more honestly this time, and shook his hand. “I think I like your friend more than I like you, Christopher.”

Chris glared at her, but inside he was smiling.

It’d worked.

 

He and Zac headed back to his motel room. Through the door, to the left, was a sunken couch, and to the right was a bed. Through a door waited a bathroom with stained walls and cracked tiles. That, essentially, was the extent of the setup.

Zac volunteered to sleep on the couch. Chris suggested he could take the bed, given the plane trip and the fact he looked like he’d just crawled out of a cave, but Zac shook his head and dumped his stuff by the couch.

“Don’t like sleeping in beds. Since my time in the service, it just doesn’t feel right.” He took a cigarette out of his pocket, and Chris moved to stop him.

“I really appreciate what you’re doing for me, but you’re not smoking in here.”

Zac considered that, and then put the cigarette between his lips anyway. “Alight. I’ll be outside if you want me.”

Chris watched him walk away, half amazed, half wary. He’d never seen someone get off an eleven hour flight, and be this wide awake. Zac was a whole new animal unto himself; if he really was a Banshee- and Chris had no reason to distrust LeCárre- then that brought a whole new level of complexity to his character. Chris had, from the moment he met him, been sure Zac was capable of immense violence, and extreme prejudice against supernaturals. If those judgements still stood, then there was a level of self loathing within Zac that staggered Chris. He stood and watched Zac, for a few moments. Standing out in the Mexican heat, head framed by a haze of cigarette smoke, holding his hat in one hand. He was roughly ruffling his hair, and a cloud of dust was coming off his scalp. It was settling on his shoulders, falling through the air and dissipating. This wasn’t a man who lived in a _house,_ who lived with _people_ in _society._

This was a rogue.

And Chris thought he might understand him a just little too much.

He went to bed, not bothering to shower. Instead, he ran the electric razor over his head and his face. There was something therapeutic about shaving it off, keeping his skin smooth. Something clean about it. He watched his own face in the mirror, but turned away from his eyes. He didn’t want to see what lay there. He didn’t want to think of what he’d do when faced with his sister.

He lay down in an unfamiliar bed, and wished he were somewhere else.

After presumably smoking his cigarette down to the filter, Zac did come back into the motel. He made a few noises- the unzipping of a pack, the jangle of a belt, the thud of his pack hitting the ground again after he was done rifling through it- and then there was a quiet sigh. Then, silence.

With great reluctance, Chris also went to sleep.

 

 

 

ISAAC LAHEY

 

He wanted to go home.

It always got to a point, while he was working, that he’d start to feel itchy, twitchy, afraid. He’d stay behind the counter instead of stepping out to greet customers, keeping that barrier between him and everyone else. Camille could always tell. Generally, she quietly suggested he go home, but usually, she laid a hand on his shoulder and sat it there for a moment or two, and would look in his eyes and smile understandingly. There was pain in her past. Isaac could see it. She knew what it was like.

But she wasn’t here.

She was out, running errands for her niece. Just half an hour, she’d said. Ten minutes in, Isaac had started to get that creeping feeling, and he’d felt his stomach drop, his heart seize up.

He’d taken a breath. Straightened his back, lifted his chin, and remembered the beautiful boy who had looked back at him in the mirror this morning.

But false bravado would only get him so far.

He was hiding behind the counter, hands resting on the keyboard for appearance’s sake, trying to decide whether or not to temporarily close the gallery, thinking, _surely she’d understand. Camille knows what it’s like, she knows what’s like to feel like this,_

Then he was rescued.

He looked up, so panicked that the scent hadn’t hit him yet, and found himself looking into those deep, dark eyes.

“My dear Isaac,” LeCárre said, frowning, “Are you alright?”

He inhaled deeply, breathing her in. His Alpha.

“…I am now.”

She smiled. “I was just stopping by to see how this gallery is doing since Camille bought it.”

“…You mean, since you bought it for Camille?”

Again, she smiled, and moved away to look at one of the paintings. She was wearing a dress again; this one was floor-length, a rich emerald colour.

“I find it best to avoid taking credit.”

He stood, advancing out from his hiding place behind the counter. “Why?”

“Selflessness, in moderation, is extremely becoming.” She considered a piece; it was a nude, distorted and unclear, in a way that was calming and blurred, utterly genderless and anonymous. Isaac loved it. Rene, a university student who came occasionally to the modelling sessions, had done it. He was a biologist. In training, anyway. He’d told Isaac, after one of the sessions, that art was his way of explaining the world without rationalization.

Isaac started. “I never greeted you properly.”

“No need to stand on ceremony. I’m no queen.”

 _That’s debatable,_ Isaac thought, as that title summed up exactly what she was.

“There are many beautiful pieces here. Are any of them yours?”

He grinned. “Not yet, Ma’am.”

She laughed. It was such a human sound, such a relaxed sound, that he found himself smiling wider.

“I like your confidence.” She paused. “How are you?”

Isaac looked down at his feet. He couldn’t tell whether she actually cared or not, but he felt like she did.

“I’m better. What you said to me, it really helped.”

“I’m glad.”

She continued looking at the painting, appearing enraptured with it, and he chewed on his lip, stopping when he tasted the chalky consistency of lipstick. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to ask.

“Do you have something more to say, young Isaac?”

He stalled, clearing his throat. He supposed he might as well ask.

“What you said to me… about being my friend. Did you mean that, or were you just being nice?”

She didn’t turn away from the painting, but her smile faded, and he felt a pulse of fear.

 _Idiot,_ he thought, _she was just being nice._

She took a slow breath, lips parting, and her eyes were no longer fixed on the painting. Rather, they were unseeing.

“Yes. I meant it.”

“…You did?”

“I don’t have many friends. I envy you,” she gestured to the space around them, “I envy the ease with which you fit in here.”

Isaac had never been envied in his life. “…But… You’re the strongest Alpha in Europe.”

She smiled ruefully. “That kind of power comes at a price.”

“Everyone respects you.”

“Everyone fears me.”

He stared at her, and wanted to take a step back. He’d wanted to ask, but he’d been certain that she’d just condescendingly frown at him and tell him she had just been polite in offering- he was, after all, just a lowly Omega. Yet he felt like he was seeing into her innermost insecurity. The power still radiated from her, and she still emitted a dominance that had him controlled in a way he’d never been before, and yet here she was; lonely.

“I’m… I’m not afraid of you.”

She turned to him, and he wondered whether he was lying. He decided he wasn’t. She didn’t scare him.

As if looking for dishonesty, she watched him, the silence stretching on. He didn’t notice the stillness- when he looked into her eyes, he was consumed.

She smiled. It wasn’t a happy expression.

“But you’re young. I’d have no company to offer you that you would find interesting.”

“I think you’re interesting.”

“But you would not be able to relax in my presence. Not properly. Not as equals do- I believe you said something similar when I visited you at your home. I am an Alpha. You are an Omega. We are, by definition, apart.”

“Well,” Isaac shrugged, “It’s a good thing I have an issue with authority then.”

She stared, and he felt some kind of awed victory when confusion filled her face in a bemused smile.

“…I’m afraid I do not know what you want, young Isaac.”

“I guess…” He looked at his feet again, tried to choose his words carefully. “I just want to repay you. And… I know what’s like to be alone.”

When he looked up again, she looked thoughtful. “Do you know what it is to be feared?”

“I’ve been a wanted fugitive. Does that count?”

She looked even more confused, and then laughed, shocked- he laughed too, slightly lightheaded with the reality of the words leaving his mouth. He didn’t imagine many people spoke to her like this.

“So, you know,” he hedged, “If you want to hang out, or whatever, that’d be… cool.”

“And do what?”

“Talk? I dunno.”

She watched him again, but this time, the smile faded off her face, and Isaac realised it wouldn’t come back. The laughter in her eyes died, and was replaced by a hard exterior.

“You’re a kind boy. I won’t forget that.”

She stepped around him, and he turned to watch her go, confused.

 “…Madame-”

“Unfortunately, Isaac,” she said, hand on the doorknob, “I am who my reputation suggests I am.”

He watched her go, dismayed.

_What did I do?_


	3. Chapter 3

CHRIS ARGENT

 

The blade was snug in his palm. Knives had always fit in his hands so well. He tightened his fingers, gripped tighter, rolled his wrist, and turned the blade where it was embedded in her.

She didn’t cry out, because she wasn’t his sister any more. She was an animal. She growled, low and angry, and he felt claws at his neck, the points sticking into his skin- but he wasn’t afraid. He was in control. She couldn’t hurt him now.

He looked down at the knife, at the blood blooming through her dirty t shirt. But something was wrong. He looked until he realised what it was, his eyes growing wide, his mouth opening in a silent question; he reached out his other hand, drew his fingers lightly down the flat abdomen, confused. There was no softness there.

“Help me,”

He froze.

That wasn’t Kate’s voice.

His eyes moved from the knife, still buried up to the hilt, up, up, up, until he was looking into Isaac’s terrified eyes.

“Please,” Isaac was crying. His skin was pale, too pale, white like Allison’s had been. His face was tight with agony, tears spilling down his cheeks and mixing with the blood that trickled from his mouth, “Please, help me, it hurts,”

“This isn’t happening”, Chris whispered, “This is just a dream, it isn’t happening-”

He tried to pull away, pull the knife out of Isaac, but a clawed hand was wrapping slowly around his arm, pushing his hand forward. He watched with nauseated horror as the knife sunk deeper, felt flesh give way beneath the blade, heard Isaac howl in pain, convulsing. The stench of blood filled his head. He reached out, to try and hold him, to try and fix this, but there was a mouth at his ear, and he couldn’t move-

“Don’t you see what you’ve done?” She asked, hissing, teeth like ice against his neck.

“This isn’t real,” he said, “This isn’t real, you’re not real,”

“Oh, but I am real. And I’ll kill him.”

She pushed his hand again, and Isaac wailed, hands on Chris’ chest, shoulders, face, neck, flailing, trying to escape- and the knife was deeper, deeper, cutting through his young body, until it found bone, embedding between his ribs, and Isaac was screaming.

“Stop, stop, Chris- Please, please, it hurts-”

“No, no, I’m not- I’m not doing this-”

“Deeper, _brother,”_ she smiled, “We’ll kill him together.”

“ _No-_ ”

“Wake up.”

“No, no, no- I won’t kill him, I won’t, I won’t-”

“Wake up-”

“Let go, let go-”

“Fuck, wake up!”

The accent, foreign and heavy, snapped Chris out of it- he sat up, fast and rigid, and pushed Zac away.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Chris breathing heavily, gripping the sheets tight.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Took a while to drag you out of that.” Zac said, uncertainly. He was shirtless, and Chris- having only just woken up- was confused by the patches where no hair grew on his chest. He blinked, focussed, and saw the thick scars that covered Zac’s torso, crisscrossed so thickly that they looked like flat skin. “You alright?”

Chris looked away, shame burning his cheeks. “Fine. Thanks.”

Zac sighed. “Whatever, man, it doesn’t matter to me. Honestly. No one’s in this fucking business because they have a stable headspace.”

Chris laughed under his breath, humourlessly, because shit, wasn’t that true. He rubbed his face, sighing loudly. His fingers shook slightly.

“I’m gonna go get some grub. Thought I might mingle with these Mexican fuckers. Gain their trust and all. You keen?”

Chris shook his head. “No, you… You go on ahead.”

“Alright, man.”

Zac, just like that, sauntered off, dropping the matter of the nightmare entirely. Chris watched him go, eyes widening as he took in the scarred expanse of his back. Skin, disfigured with lumps and hard, rigid scars. The kind of mutilation that would never be healed, not naturally, and not through plastic surgery either.

Some of the scars were older; bullet wounds, claw marks. But the majority had been made with a knife.

“Had yourself a good eyeful, Chrissie?”

Chris started. “Sorry.”

Zac picked up his shirt off the couch. The same one he’d been wearing yesterday. “You wanna know how I got these scars?”

Chris blinked. “Did… Did you just quote the Joker?”

Zac grinned. “Fuck yeah. Love that bastard.”

“…I don’t really want to know.”

“Yeah, you do,” Zac pulled on his shirt, “You’re just being polite. Which I appreciate. D’you want a coffee or anything? I’ll get it while I’m out with your delightful fucking Mexican mates.”

“Believe me, they aren’t my mates.”

“Yeah, I gathered that last night.” Zac laughed, rooting around in his bag for something. “Was that a yes for that coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“How d’you take it?”

“Black. Two sugars.”

Zac laughed again, standing, a handful of notes in his hands. “A man after my own heart. Well, see you later, Chrissie, if I survive.”

With one final grin, he left. Chris stared after him, thinking about what kind of person he was, thinking about those scars- but, as his eyes fixed on the closed door, he remembered the dream. The nightmare.

_“Stop, stop, Chris- Please, please, it hurts-”_

He threw the sheets off him and ran to the bathroom.

He was on his knees, immediately, retching into the toilet. The smell of vomit hit the air, acidic and disgusting, and he gripped the ceramic edge hard, stomach tight as he heaved.

When he was done, he lay on his back, mouth wet, the sour taste of bile overtaking him, the smell choking him.

He lay there until he could wrestle back control of himself.

 

***

 

“I think Mrs Calavera likes me.”

Chris heard Zac come in and drop a paper bag on the table. He got up from bed slowly, hoping his eyes weren’t still swollen pink, hoping Zac wouldn’t smell vomit on his breath.

“So, I got your coffee,” Zac said, holding out a cardboard coffee cup. He looked up briefly, and paused, obviously noticing all the things Chris had hoped he wouldn’t, but didn’t comment. Chris took the coffee from him with a small nod of thanks.

“…I also got some donuts.” Zac continued. “I dunno whether you like them, but if you want to try and drink that crap, you’ll need some sugar, know what I’m saying? Mexicans, man. Shit fucking coffee.”

Chris had an experimental sip, and wrinkled his nose. Zac laughed.

“Tastes like tar, huh?”

“Probably just what I need today.” Chris sighed, reached into the bag and pulled out a donut. He took a bite. It was chocolate.

“…Still, though, you alright, man?”

“Fine.”

Zac nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I hope so.”

“…Why do you say it like that?”

“Because we got a lead.” Zac reached into the bag and pulled out a pink donut. He considered it for a few moments before taking a bite. “Your sister,” he said, through a mouthful, “dropped ten bodies last night.”

Chris looked sharply up from his coffee. “Where?”

“The heart of Mexico City. It’s plastered all over the news. I mean,” Zac gestured with the donut, “they were a group of organised human traffickers with a long list of criminal offences, so I don’t really give a fuck that they’re dead- but she’s making this hard for us.”

“…Why the hell didn’t you mention this when you walked in the door?”

“Because I’m not a _completely_ insensitive prick. You had it pretty rough last night. Thought you might appreciate breakfast first.”

“Well, that’s nice.” Chris took another pull of coffee, felt the caffeine hit starting to seep into his tired brain. “But I’m here to kill Kate. Screwing around with information isn’t going to get her dead quicker.”

Zac smirked. “You’re an ungrateful prick. I think we might get along.”

Chris glared at him, too tired to try and figure out whether Zac’s tone was offended, impressed, sarcastic, or apathetic.

“The Calaveras are working on a way to try and get to the scene, but I don’t think it’s gonna happen.” Zac shoved the rest of the donut in his mouth and grabbed another from the bag. “The cops are all over the scene already- and, much as these little Mexican shitheads like to _think_ they’re the awesomely powerful, they’re fucking _pathetic._ And they’re almost extinct as a Hunting family. It’s just the bitch and her six sons. It’d be easy to get rid of them.”

“I need them to kill Kate,” Chris said, gruffly, “Has anyone ever told you that you need to shut up occasionally?”

“Yeah, plenty. And, you don’t need them to kill your sister.”

“I do.”

“Bullshit. I’m a fucking Banshee. I’ll find her sooner than they will.”

Chris frowned. “I haven’t seen you getting any visions or hearing anything…. supernatural, yet.”

Zac grinned. “You really think I’m just a Hunter? You think I- or _anyone-_ could fool LeCárre?”

“…Good point.”

Zac, pleased with himself, continued eating his donut. He sat heavily down in one of the plastic chairs, and it grated harshly against the floor. The sound set Chris’ teeth on edge.

“How’d you become LeCárre’s spy, anyway? You don’t seem the type to take orders.”

Zac looked up at him and, for a moment, the wild energy faded from his eyes, and he looked serious. It passed quickly. He chuckled.

“That story comes later, if it comes at all, mate. Let’s just say I respect that woman more than I’ll ever respect any other damn person.”

Chris nodded, because that made sense. Throughout the world, every person who knew of her acknowledged her with reverence- whether they opposed her or served her, or knew of her through legend. He imagined she would be one of the few who could tame Zac’s nature.

“Hey, what kind of person is your sister?”

Not a hard question to answer. “She’s a psychopath.”

“Yeah, but the victims were _bad._ I’m talking really fucked up stuff. The kinds of people that get murdered in prison by their bunk buddies, know what I’m saying?”

Chris did. There was only one kind of criminal that all other criminals despised. “So? She just loves killing.”

Zac hummed with interest. “Maybe.”

“’Maybe’?”

“She might be trying to gain your favour.”

Chris raised his eyebrows dryly, though Zac did have a point- he was off the mark by only a small margin. He was right to assume Kate was killing with a purpose, but her intent wasn’t to gain her big brother’s compassion. Her only intent was to kill those who she thought deserved death; her motive was eradicating those she viewed as being unworthy of breathing the same air she did.

Derek’s family was evidence enough of that.

“Well, I don’t fucking know.” Zac shoved the rest of the donut in his mouth and started digging around for another one. “Only thing I’m sure of is that this might shock you. You say you’re fine, but are you ready for this? Are you ready to see what she did to the bodies?”

Chris clenched his jaw. He felt humiliated. “I’m a Hunter too, Zac. I’ve done my fair share of killing.”

Zac held up the last donut, nodding. He scrunched up the bag.

“I know. The legendary Argent family. You slaughtered hundreds.” Zac paused. “But so have I. And I have nightmares too, y’know. I know what it’s like.”

Chris felt a smile rise to his lips. He knew it was bitter, hateful, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want Zac’s pity- empathy or not, he didn’t want it. Whatever form it came in.

“You done?”

Zac nodded, “Yeah, sure, I’m done. Want the last donut?”

“No.”

“Cool.” Zac started eating.

 

***

 

The Calaveras didn’t manage to gain access to the crime scene. Chris would never have admitted how glad he was. He didn’t want death. He didn’t want blood and pain and muffled screams, to see what his sister had done to people he couldn’t deny had deserved it.

He wanted Isaac. He wanted the safety he’d found in France. He wanted slow mornings and the smell of breakfast, the sun rising up over the balcony, the Eiffel Tower glittering prettily in the distance.

He wanted to go home.

But the Araya could tell, and so she cornered him outside his motel room that night, and held out a handful of pictures.

“You should see these, Christopher.”

He took them, and looked. Because he knew he had no choice.

She had reduced the men to a pile of bloody flesh, pieces of bone sticking out in sharp points. Hands and feet hung limply, faces torn in half, dead eyes staring out of the glossy crime scene photos with empty gazes. They looked right through Chris. He looked straight back, and wondered what they’d done, specifically. The reason Kate had chosen them. They had to have gotten onto her radar somehow. Maybe whatever they had done was bad enough to make the news.

“Do we know who they are?”

“Not yet. The police will inform us.” Araya crossed her arms. “Do you see what she has done?”

“It wasn’t an angry kill. She was methodical about tearing them apart.”

It wasn’t the answer Araya wanted. She wanted him to feel responsible, to feel guilty, for what his sister was doing. She wanted him to feel shame for his family, for what his sister had become- for what his wife had become, for the sympathies his daughter had held for the supernatural world. She wanted him to be ashamed.

He held out the photos and levelled his gaze, challenging her. He would not be bullied.

Araya, arms crossed, did not take the photos. “She knew you would be seeing this kill.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, Araya.”

“Yet you make light of this. You ignore the responsibility that you-”

“This isn’t _my_ fault, Araya. _I_ didn’t kill them.”

“It is _your blood_ that kills Mexican innocents!”

He laughed, trying to keep his composure, but mostly failing. “They weren’t innocents.”

“So you justify it? You support her actions?”

“No,” Chris ground out the word through his teeth, “I don’t.”

She laughed cruelly, and he reminded himself of all the things he had done, all the violence and the bloodshed he had withstood- he might’ve softened, mellowed around the edges, but he could take this. He would find Kate, and he would keep himself from doing what he _really_ wanted to do; bury his knife in Araya’s throat.

“I will find her. My way. And I will kill her.” He turned away from her, as insultingly and dismissively as he could possibly manage, and opened the door to his motel room.

He closed the door behind him, and leaned against it for a brief second, glaring straight ahead. Zac, lounging on the couch, was grinning.

“I’m surprised you didn’t put your fist in her face.”

“You were listening?”

“’Course I was. You’ve got way more self control than I do, mate.”

“Yeah, well. I used to have plenty more.” Chris threw the pictures at Zac, and they landed in his lap. Zac picked them up and regarded them with vague interest.

“She’s definitely putting on a show. This isn’t-”

“- a rushed killing, I know. This was deliberate.” Chris took a breath, shaking his head, walking quickly forward to the bed. He sat heavily down on it, the metal frame creaking dangerously under his weight. “This is typical of Kate. Deliberate. Well-thought out. She’s still a _Hunter.”_ Frustration made his voice sharp, because he knew she’d probably tear them to pieces before they could even pinpoint where she was hiding. Nowhere was safe.

Zac continued looking thoughtfully at the photographs, apparently unconcerned by the gruesome content. “Yeah, and she’s a lot more than that.”

The tone of his voice, both impressed and exhausted, caused Chris to reconsider him. It was only then that he noticed Zac’s skin was a few shades paler, and there were dark marks under his eyes. He realised Zac had been sitting still for a very long time, in a sedentary way that was uncharacteristic of his animalistic edge.

“…What did you do?”

Zac put down the photo he’d been looking at, dropping it, and the rest of the photographs, onto the couch beside him. “I tried to find her.”

“…Using your Banshee abilities?”

“Yeah. Normally, I’d have been able to locate her in a second, but she’s…” He laughed- unlike Chris, he seemed more impressed than actually angry. “…She’s fucking strong. I knew she’d become a La Loba, but I didn’t know her supernatural strength extended this far.”

Chris felt a creeping worry. “She can…. block you?”

“Not only that, she can _reach_ me.” Zac tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and Chris’ eyes were drawn to the puckered scarring that pulled at the fragile skin of his neck. “I had to stop because she was turning it back on me, know what I’m saying?”

Chris didn’t. “What do you mean? How?”

“She’s La Loba, asshole,” Zac sighed tiredly, “She can do all kinds of shit.”

 

***

 

It was only when he fell into bed that night that he realised he didn’t want to sleep.

He needed to rest, he knew that, especially if Kate was strong enough to counteract the abilities of a Banshee- he still had violence in him, but it wasn’t as sharp, as refined, as brutishly determined as before. Once, he’d been able to last for days on nothing but fumes, cutting down everything in his path, tracking monsters through godforsaken places where no other human would dare walk.

He wasn’t that man anymore.

The nightmare from last night was still stark in his memory, and he knew that, the second he fell asleep, dreams would come for him. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see Isaac, in pieces, torn apart the same way Kate had ripped up those men, blue eyes dead and unseeing. He didn’t want to see Allison in her grave, or his wife with a knife embedded between her ribs.

So he did what he’d once done, nightly, to escape the horrors in his dreams.

He found a store, and bought straight rum. He drank it quickly, without anything else, until the bottle was three quarters empty and his head was spinning. He fell onto the bed and hoped Zac would be out long enough that he’d be asleep when he got back.

In the hazy minutes before the alcohol dragged him under, he stared at the ceiling, nausea turning his stomach, too drunk to care. The cracked plaster turned to creamy white, smoothly painted, and the room blurred in front of his eyes until he found himself back in Paris.

He turned his head on the pillow, and could’ve sworn he saw Isaac’s blurred face, blonde-brown curls framing a cheeky grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates for this fic will stop indefinitely, partially due to hand injuries, but also I'm finding it hard to be inspired by Teen Wolf during this hiatus. Here's to hoping Daniel Sharman's in the next season, then this will definitely be continued!!
> 
> (also the notes on my fics are being weird, so if notes from previous fics are repeating, apologies)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has been waiting for this fic to be continued, here's a final chapter just for you <3

TWO MONTHS LATER

 

 

Chris came home.

The weight of his sister’s blood was heavy on his hands–and, though she’d needed to die, he still mourned her, still mourned the peace he’d found in France and the happiness he’d started to believe he could return to. The world was bleak and cruel, colourless and cold, after she was dead. He flew back with Zac, and they didn’t speak until the plane landed in France.

“You did what you had to, mate,” Zac said, his eyes clear and unburdened by regret, “We both did.”

Chris met his stare, considered hitting him, just because he felt like hell, just because he felt like lashing out. But Zac was a good man; he’d been respectful, and stopped the Calaveras from dismembering Kate’s body and stringing her up as an example for other supernaturals to witness. She’d gotten a funeral. A proper one. Zac had arranged it, without Chris even asking, and that meant the world.

“Thanks, Zac,” Chris said, smiling only for his friend’s benefit, “for everything.”

Zac smiled grimly. “No need to make it all sunshine and rainbows, mate. You’re allowed to hate the part I played in capturing her. Just don’t drink yourself to death when you get home, alright? You go home to that boy, and you let him comfort you. Don’t push him away.”

Chris shouldered his bag as they walked across the tarmac. “How many times do I have to tell you, Zac? It’s not like that.”

“I don’t really give a shit how it is,” Zac replied, unfazed, “All I know is, you love him, and he loves you. Happiest I’ve ever seen you is when you’re talking to him.”

Chris set his jaw. He couldn’t deny it.

“Just so you know,” Zac said, “the age of consent in France is fifteen.”

It was a joke. Just a joke.

But Chris punched him anyway.

 

 

***

 

 

He put his key into the door, took a deep breath. His heart was hammering, beating too fast. Isaac, if he was home, must’ve been able to hear it. But no one had come running, so Chris desperately wanted to assume Isaac wasn’t home; he needed a minute, he needed a _year_ to deal with this, to understand how he felt. Isaac was only nineteen. Only _nineteen._

But Chris loved him.

He opened the door, expecting an empty apartment, ready to crumble, ready to collapse. His bag was so heavy on his back, like a stone, like the weight of the war within him.

Chris wasn’t expecting to see Isaac standing there.

Isaac was frozen to the spot, mouth open, arms hanging by his sides. His blue eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were filled with tears, and Chris felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

“Chris,” Isaac said, and he was running forward; they both were, until Chris had Isaac against him, until they were together again, the world suddenly returned to the way it was _supposed to be._ Chris held him, held him so tight, until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and he realised he was crying–it was all too much, and he’d killed his sister, and he hated himself for it–but now he was home, and he felt safe, he felt _happy_ here-

“Chris,” Isaac was holding him up, whispering, “god, I missed you, I missed you so much,”

Isaac was crying, they both were, and Chris laughed brokenly, hugging him tighter. He felt Isaac’s cheek against his neck, breaths against his skin–and he knew he was surrendering to it, knew he was accepting that this was his fate; to love a boy he could not have, a young man who he’d never be able to touch the way he dreamed-

But it was enough. To hold Isaac like a father. To be close to him, like a friend.

This was enough.

They stayed there, crying, and when they finally stopped crying, they just breathed. Breathed each other in. For the first time in months, everything was still, everything was whole, and the word had finally stopped spinning out of control. The nightmare of Mexico, all the terrible things Chris had done, they’d disappeared behind the closed door of this apartment. They were safe, and they were together.

Chris was about to pull away, was about to distance himself because he knew what he wanted and he couldn’t allow himself to have it–when Isaac tilted his head, lifted it-

-and pressed a chaste kiss to Chris’ mouth.

Chris pulled back, eyes wide.

Isaac looked back at him, calm and beautiful. This wasn’t like the first time they’d kissed, when Isaac was panicking, when Isaac was out of control and grieving. This was considered. Chris’ heart started beating hard again, and he swallowed thickly.

This was _dangerous._

“Isaac,” his voice was strangled, “…Why did you do that?”

Isaac smiled, his smirk roguishly charming, and–in spite of the situation they were in–Chris felt a surge of relief, seeing that cheeky expression again. But then, remembering what Isaac had just done, Chris felt ill.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Chris sucked in a sharp breath as Isaac shifted closer, “Because I’m-”

“You’re not my father.” Isaac kissed him again, and Chris held him back, both hands on his chest–but he let go, immediately, when he realised he wanted to _touch_ Isaac. Wanted to hold him.

And Isaac wanted that, too.

“I might as well be.” Chris said, sharply now. He bent down, picked up his bag from where he’d dropped it, and went to walk to his room–Isaac stood in front of him, and Chris stopped immediately. He stepped back, away from this beautiful boy, this boy that he loved so much.

And he didn’t move.

Because there was a war inside him, a war that had been raging since Isaac climbed into his bed that first night, and as Isaac inched closer, he realised he was losing. Isaac’s expression was open, honest, and vulnerable. Chris didn’t move, and Isaac continued moving closer. He kissed Chris again, and Chris closed his eyes, tormented.

“Isaac…”

“Please,” Isaac whispered, “If you’re saying no for your sake, then fine. But, if you’re saying no for _my_ sake, then-”

“I can’t do this, Isaac, I’m over twice your age-”

“Do you want this?”

Chris didn’t respond. Isaac moved closer, and they were pressed together. Chris couldn’t breathe.

“It’s okay.” Isaac reached up, sliding a hand onto Chris’ neck, and he still had his eyes closer, as if he could pretend this wasn’t happening. “It’s okay to want me.”

“In what world,” Chris’ voice was broken, shattered, weak, “is this _okay,_ Isaac?”

“In this one. Because you’re the only person who loves me. You’re the only person who cares about me. I need you.” Isaac’s voice was soft, but his conviction was strong. “And I know that you need me too. I’m old enough to make my own decisions, and I know I want you. I know I never want to leave you. This apartment, Chris? This place is my home. It’s _our_ home.”

Chris opened his eyes, and looked at Isaac. Looked at him, and wished he could find answers in his beautiful eyes. Wished he could deny this, wished he could tell himself he didn’t want this. But suddenly, the world felt so far away; they were two people, and this was just between them, and the honesty in Isaac’s eyes said this was pure. This was good. This was an innocent love, born out of pain and loss, and he remembered holding Isaac as he cried, remembered all they’d suffered together, remembered the happiness he’d felt blooming in his chest whenever he heard Isaac’s voice on the phone.

And he felt it all crumble.

All his reasons, all his regrets, all his moral dilemmas.

He reached up, slowly, slid a hand onto Isaac’s neck. Watched Isaac’s smile grow, until he was beaming, delighted. Chris leaned forward, kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. Loving.

“Will I regret this?” he asked.

He felt Isaac smile against his mouth. “No.”

 

 

***

 

 

Isaac fell onto Chris’ chest, gasping.

Chris held him, breathing hard. They stayed like that, for a long time.

Eventually, Isaac sat up, and somehow this was even more intimate than anything they’d just done; feeling himself slip out of Isaac, seeing the slick shine against the soft white flesh of Isaac’s thighs.

“That was amazing,” Isaac breathed, flopping down onto the bed, cuddling into Chris’ side, “wow.”

Chris held him and kissed his hair, didn’t ask, _am I your first? Have you ever slept with a man before? Was that good? Did you ever imagine you’d sleep with a man twice your age? Have I made the biggest mistake of my life, and yours?_

They lay there, both still breathing hard, and Chris didn’t quite know how to suggest that Isaac may want to shower before the come started to dry inside him. He was dizzy with what they had just done. The knowledge that he’d given in. That they’d actually done this.

But Isaac was so beautiful. Lying on his side, naked, blonde-brown curls illuminated by evening sunlight. He looked like a sinful angel, with his pink lips wet and glistening, his half-lidded eyes heavy with lust and framed by long eyelashes. His face, his beautiful face, with his cheekbones and his sharp jaw, was intoxicating just to look at, even more intoxicating to touch, to taste.

Chris gently drew his fingers down Isaac’s cheek, felt the softness of his skin.

And he realised, for better or worse, that he did not regret this.

“Everything’s going to change, now,” he said, gently, “if you want to keep doing this.”

“I do.” Isaac smiled, and Chris’ chest ached, with how much he _loved_ that expression, how much he _loved_ Isaac, “Do you?”

“…Yeah.”

Isaac laughed delightedly. “Knew it.”

Chris laughed too. They fell silent, then.

“I didn’t feel this way at first,” Chris felt the need to say, “when you came to stay with me.”

Isaac huffed out a petulant sigh. “I did.”

Chris raised his eyebrows at the ceiling, amused. That made his struggle possibly even more ridiculous; Isaac had always been insatiable, and unstoppable. They’d always have ended up here. They’d always have become this to each other.

“God,” Chris sighed, “you’re not even _twenty.”_

Isaac gently slapped him on the cheek. “Don’t do that. Besides, I will be in a few months.” Isaac sat up, stretched, “I feel gross. Come shower with me.”

Chris groaned, as Isaac ambled out of bed, all long limbs and youthful grace.

“Can’t we just lie here for a while?”

“Get up, old man."

Chris’ expression was incredulous, “That doesn’t make me feel better about this, Isaac.”

Isaac grinned cheekily, and Chris nearly had a heart attack when Isaac turned his back, slapping his own ass.

“Better get used to it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

LATER

 

 

Chris hung up the phone as he watched the sun rise over France. Behind him, the balcony door opened, and Isaac came out, holding two plates of food. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of paint-splattered jeans, his fly undone. His hair was mussed from sleep, but he looked so gorgeous that Chris wasn’t quite sure how he could possibly have deserved the love of this beautiful young man.

“Who was that?” Isaac asked.

“Scott,” Chris replied, putting his phone in his pocket, “he wants us to come back to Beacon Hills for Christmas.”

Isaac put down the plates, frowning, “He knows we’re in France, right?”

“I assume so.” Chris regarded the plate in front of him, which was brimming with a tantalising selection of meats, cheeses, fruits, and yoghurts. “This looks _amazing,_ Isaac.”

Isaac grinned smugly. “I know.”

Chris laughed, and began eating. They did this, every day; ate together, whether it was at home or out at a restaurant. Eugène was wholly welcoming of their relationship, and for some reason felt the need to call them, ‘my lovely gay American friends’ whenever they came to eat at his café. Chris had gotten used to walking around with Isaac on his arm; the shame was fading, replaced by bliss. They were so happy. He couldn’t find it in himself to be miserable. ‘They’re just jealous,’ Isaac had whispered in his ear one day, as they walked down a street and tourists stared, ‘they wish they had me for themselves’. He’d punctuated this by kissing Chris passionately, and Chris had let him, dazed by his confidence, in love with his petulance. And there had been something elating, about taking Isaac’s waist, kissing him back.

They were happy. And that was all that mattered.

“That’ll be interesting, won't it?” Isaac said thoughtfully, as he chewed on a piece of rockmelon wrapped in prosciutto–still one of his favourite snacks, Chris was proud and touched to know.

“What?”

“Well,” Isaac smiled cheekily, “I assume you haven’t told anyone in Beacon Hills that we’re together.”

Chris wearily imagined breaking that news over the phone. “I suppose it will be interesting, yes.”

Isaac reached across the table, took Chris’ hand. Stroked Chris’ battered knuckles with his thumb. He smiled, loving, and kissed Chris.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured, “let’s show them all.”

Chris, despite himself, smiled. He kissed Isaac back, softly, and closed his eyes.

“Alright.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK  
> THEY SAID IT  
> TO EACH OTHER  
> I'M SQUEALING WHILE REREADING THIS DAMNIT


End file.
